


Pure Circle

by Jubalii



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series, Layton Kyouju vs Gyakuten Saiban | Professor Layton vs. Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney, 逆転裁判 | Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: Acceptance, Canon Compliant, F/M, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, Romance, Self-Discovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:47:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23274211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jubalii/pseuds/Jubalii
Summary: Following the events of the Final Story, Zacharias Barnham finds his life has been dashed to pieces and scattered on the winds of the Storyteller's "new dawn". Unable to trust his resurfacing memories and unsure of the future, he strives to carve himself a place in this strange new world."In the same recurring landscape,We form a circle and rotate.If something is not visible,I wonder if I still need to see it?"
Relationships: Zacharias Barnham/Eve Belduke
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	Pure Circle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barnham becomes an apprentice.

###  _They say there are some invisible connections  
Let me hear signs of your heartbeat before falling asleep _

###  **_-Pure Circle, JYOCHO_ **

_I was sure this is the correct street… is it not?_

Zacharias Barnham walked slowly down the narrow lane, glancing at the metal signs creaking over his head. _Greengrocer… joiner… tanner… butcher…. I did not miss it, did I?_ Pausing uncertainly, he turned back and squinted at the signs he’d already passed, one hand guarding against the sun. _I don’t understand. It should be here._

Idling beneath a shingled overhang, he uncrumpled the scrap of parchment in his fist, smoothing it out on his palm. Lady Darklaw had been kind enough to write the address for him yesterday, after offering a possible solution to the conundrum that had already plagued him a fortnight. The parchment was faded, ink smeared with sweat, but ‘twas no matter: he’d read and reread the address until he could recite it from memory. Still, that didn’t aid him in finding its location.

Weighing his options, he decided to press onwards. Even if he didn’t know a direct path back to the garrison, it was nearly impossible to get lost in Labyrinthia. The city’s outermost rings were just that—rings of lanes that flanked Main Street’s arch-lined avenue. If he’d missed the building he was searching for, it would be nothing to double back. 

He stepped back onto the lane, keeping his head low as he avoided a passing cart. A loose cobblestone slid beneath his sandal and sent him stumbling into the gutter; struggling to correct his balance, he nearly wrenched his ankle staggering around a stagnant puddle. It was enough to make him blush as he climbed from the rain ditch, running a flustered hand through his hair. The streets were empty, and if he was lucky no one had been near a window to notice his blunder. He was nervous enough as it was, walking the streets with neither weapon nor armor. He had nothing to protect him from their curious gazes.

He sighed, rolling his shoulders and finding the movement altogether too easy. He was too accustomed to the heft of metal, the tight leather straps holding it to his frame—even the sounds it made, now as familiar to him as his own footsteps. Without his armor he was quieter, off balanced, exposed to the world. _Vulnerable._

However, it hadn’t been wise to wear the garrison’s colors— not for this particular mission. Considering all that had happened, he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that the sight would be most unwelcome where he was headed. 

Besides, it was a truth—however unfortunate—that he no longer felt akin to the Sir Barnham who owned that shining suit of armor. Well… no, that was not entirely true, either. He _was_ Zacharias Barnham, but at the same time he was not. It made no sense, not even to him. He was only one man, not two; how, then, could he feel so torn asunder? How could he be something, and yet not be?

It had much to do with the final witch trial, the reveal of Project Labyrinthia, and its inevitable dissolution. The events of his natural life, the way he remembered them, were naught but a fabrication… at least, until a few months ago. He tried to comfort himself with the thought that a painting, whether a true landscape or an imagined one, was still a painting at its core. Could not the same be said of a life? True or false, his memories were still _his_. They were all he had left in this world, which made them even more valuable. 

It was too deep a subject to comprehend, even for the Inquisition. While able to sympathize with Labryinthia’s plight, Lady Darklaw could not fully relate to them. She had not signed Labrelum’s contract, nor had she been intentionally hypnotized. The Story’s potent ink had no effect on her. Even more puzzling was her apparent disinterest in the _whys_ and _hows_. The one time he’d ventured to ask, she’d brushed him off by stating that he had the wrong Belduke; it was her father, she claimed, who’d been interested in the science of the mind. She’d quickly changed the subject afterwards, and he’d not been bold enough to approach it again. 

The fishmonger’s daughter was outside her family’s shop, sleeves rolled nearly to her shoulders as she slapped a load of fresh haddock onto the wooden boards. Pushing a limp strand of hair from her ruddy forehead, she straightened with a grunt and turned just in time to see him passing the butcher’s. She gawked, eyes wide, and then hurried into the fishmonger’s shop without a word. A moment later she appeared alongside the fishwife at the window, the pair of them peering curiously at him around the shutters.

Ears burning, he ignored their poignant stares and hurried on his way, crossing a narrow side lane and nearly running headfirst into the very place he was searching for: the bakery. It was a quaint two-storied structure, nestled in a prime spot where the two lanes met. Despite being in the heart of the eastern shopping area, the building had the air of a country cottage. A lone fern hung from a metal pole tacked beneath the eaves, and bushy vines grew from the upper window boxes. He might have even mistook it for a florist’s shop, had the delicious scent of yeasty, sugary warmth not wafted from the open doorway.

 _Eclaire Bakery_ , a sign proclaimed in neat script, swinging gaily from its iron frame. A pink canvas overhang rippled in the breeze, pinioned over moveable wooden joists; a simple white stripe ran like a band of icing around its frilled hem. Beneath it, rows of collapsible wooden shelves held both fresh items and day-old discounts, each designated with handwritten placards.

The fishmonger’s briny stench, wafting from across the lane, wasn’t enough to dwarf the tantalizing aroma of bread and sweets. For endless seconds he could only stand like a fool in the street, filling his lungs with the delicious fragrance. It was so different from the world he knew! Every knight—regardless of rank—partook of the same daily rations, which were made with their lifestyle in mind. It was good food, nutritiously sound and filling, but otherwise plain. Their bread was dark and unadorned, the baked seeds still smelling of sun-rich fields. By contrast, this savory scent was pure indulgence: sugared icing, hot glaze, with a thick, mouthwatering undercurrent of stewed fruit.

A familiar figure emerged from the shadowy threshold, a woven basket filled with baguettes balanced on her hip. Even without the straw-colored plaits, he would have recognized her by the vibrant red cloak draped over her shoulders. Without his armor, it was easy to blend in with the other townsmen enjoying the fine weather; encumbered with her basket, she was too focused on her task to notice him idling in the street. Her blue eyes never once strayed from the baguettes, arranging them pleasingly on an empty shelf and pausing only to admire her handiwork. Anxious, he fidgeted a moment before clearing his throat pointedly.

“Espella Cantabella.” She gasped, spinning to face the street. The heavy cloak flared over her shoulders, upsetting the near-empty basket; it teetered precariously on the edge before toppling. She caught it without a moment to spare, clutching the wicker to her chest and eyeing him with a stubborn wariness. _So much for a fair start._ He edged himself beneath the overhang, offering a courteous bow. “Good morrow.”

“Sir… Sir Barnham.” She ducked in an equally civil curtsey, maneuvering so that the display shelf remained a barrier between their bodies. As she rose, he saw her eyes dart quickly from his face to the open threshold. It was the look of a rabbit, seemingly cornered by a bird of prey; unable—or unwilling—to make a run for it, she had no other choice but to freeze. To her credit she managed to politely squeak, “Welcome to the bakery. We have an excellent s-selection of the freshest bread available.”

“I….” He faltered, unsure of how to voice his request… or even who he ought to be voicing it to. “I did not come here for _bread_.” His voice, already on the edge of exasperation, was gruffer than he’d meant for it to be. Espella visibly flinched, thin forearms tightening around the basket as she inched towards the threshold.

“T-then… good day to you!” Heels scrabbling on the cobblestones, she scurried around his hip and all but leapt over the threshold. “Sir!” she called over her shoulder, disappearing into the bakery. He heard a door slam and his breath sputtered out in a longsuffering sigh. _This is not going as planned. Perhaps it would be best… no. A Knight of the Court is no coward._ Taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders before following Espella inside.

The bakery’s interior was just as warm and cozy as the exterior made it out to be. Shelves lined the left wall from floor to ceiling, filled end to end with every sort of bread imaginable. Long, thin ones were stacked upright in neat formation, some longer than his sword. Others were bite-size, perfectly formed balls that could have fit in the palm of his hand. Some were covered in a fine layer of flour, others in jam and even more with various seeds. There were braided loaves, golden brown loaves speckled with herbs, and some carved with leaves and other fetching patterns.

A large brick oven stood in the corner, its iron door open to show more bread being baked within. Spare firewood was neatly stacked in the storage area beneath, but in the gap between the bricks and the outer wall someone had hastily stuffed more wood, as well as hay for kindling. Behind the counter, a wooden shelf bowed beneath the weight of countless bowls, utensils, and other equipment. The barrels beneath the shelves were full of supplies, and he could see several heavy looking sacks of flour stacked up neatly beside a wooden door.

He stood awkwardly in the room, taking in the scene and feeling very much out of place. A high-ranking knight like himself had seldom, if any, need to frequent the shoppes. For as long as he could remember, his every need had been provided for. _Then again,_ he thought ruefully, _that’s the very reason I’m here._

In the few short weeks since the Final Story the infrastructure system he’d relied on for the past ten years had all but vanished—and with it, the last of his dwindling savings. He’d never bothered to save more than necessary, being somewhat secured in his career; after all, Labyrinthia would always need knights, and the Inquisition… or so he’d thought.

With his sole source of income gone, he’d been left with meager savings and a “complimentary severance package” from Labrelum Inc. Not willing to be indebted to anyone, he’d used a majority of the money to pay off any outstanding loans he held with the armorer and blacksmith. The remaining coin went to the stablemaster— enough to board his horse through the summer. At the end of it all, he was left a free man… free, but also penniless.

 _Bread…_ A basket of rolls on a nearby shelf seemed to call to him. They were fresh from the oven, their steaming, golden-brown crusts glistening with a sheen of butter. His mouth watered, imagining the combination of hard, flaky outer crust and soft, fluffy bread just beneath…. There had been no time for breakfast earlier; his impertinently growling stomach reminded him that it was now midmorning, with lunch over the horizon. He found himself reaching for the basket without thought. Surely any baker wouldn’t begrudge a hungry man one bite, if he had full intent to pay for it afterwards?

“ _Welcome_!” Barnham jumped at the sound of the enthusiastic greeting, snatching his hand from the basket with a guilty cough. It seemed that there would be no indulgence in temptation today after all. The owner of the voice turned out to be a middle-aged woman of stout build, dressed in the durable homespun clothing preferred by most Labyrinthian housewives.

“A-Are you the baker Eclaire?”

“I am.” Her round cheeks dimpled as she beamed up at him, clapping her mitted hands together. “How may I help you today, sir? Are we looking for anything in particular?”

So, this was the baker, then? He’d been rather preoccupied at the time, but he’d later heard that on the night of the Final Story, the town baker had stormed the bell tower post-Parade. Apparently, in an attempt to see the accused, she’d thrown flour at the Vigilantes that guarded the tower before confronting their leader and daring him to pull his sword. A brazen move, especially for a common baker, but it showed her to be a woman of valor in the face of danger. That he could well respect, but… looking at her now, it was hard to imagine this bright and shining visage causing such trouble to anyone.

“Were you wanting to inquire about the rolls?” she prompted when he remained silent. “Baked them myself, just this morning. Only the freshest will do, after all.”

“No, that’s not necessary—I actually wanted—what I mean is, in a manner of speaking….” Fidgeting, he avoided her curious eyes, trying in vain to spit out the speech he’d practiced so faithfully the night before. “Mrs. Eclaire, I have come to speak with you on a matter of great importance.”

“Huh?” Her brow furrowed, hands on her hips as she peered closely. “Wait just one minute…!” Recognition lit her face, snuffing her friendly smile in the blink of an eye. He was shocked at how quickly her expression could change; suddenly she looked far less friendly, all but glowering at him with crossed arms. “I know you! You’re that knight from the Inquisition!”

“I… I am.” He ducked his head in a hasty bow, unwilling to take his eyes off the rolling pin on the counter between them. It wouldn’t feel very nice if she took the notion to crack it against his skull. Until he knew just what this woman was capable of, he had no choice but to be on his guard. 

“Normally a body introduces oneself before speaking of “matters of great importance”,” she snapped, one thick brow arching imperiously. “It’s only proper manners.”

“F-forgive me!” he stammered, throwing a hang over his chest in the proper Labyrinthian salute. The force of the blow nearly stole the breath from his lungs; he was used to a breastplate softening the brunt of his strength. “I meant no disrespect. I am Sir Zacharias Barnham, Court In— _Ex_ Court Inquisitor and former Leader of the Order.” It sounded absolutely pathetic. He might as well have named himself Earl of Nothing-ham while he was at it. _Zacharias Barnham: former contributing member of society, now an unemployed wretch barely able to afford a crust of bread. Shameful._

“Well!” she drawled. “Sir Zacharias Barnham, former-this and ex-that: if you’re not here for bread, then just _why_ have you come?” Mrs. Eclaire asked, with all the bluntness afforded a woman speaking to someone many years her junior. _Perhaps she really **was** giving those men a hard time. _“If this is about Espella, you can take your complaints and—”

“’Tis nothing to do with Miss Cantabella!” He gulped, both hands raised in defense. “I beg your pardon; I do not mean to interrupt. I merely wished to ask you… well, more to clarify something.” He looked away, heat rising to his cheeks. “Sir Blue Knight and Miss Fey. They used to work here, did they not?”

“Aye, they did indeed.” Her protective scowl gave way to a puzzled frown. “For a time, anyway. Why?”

“I… I’ve heard it mentioned that you’ve been advertising for a part-time apprenticeship now that they’ve returned to their rightful home.” There, the worst of it was over. No matter what her answer, he’d at least made it to the crux of the matter.

“I am.” If anything, she looked more suspicious of him than before. “Are you planning to recommend someone from the garrison?” she asked, incredulous. “While I can’t say that I’m ungrateful, I _am_ capable of finding my own help, thank you.”

“N-no, you misunderstand. I am not recommending anyone, I am… I am inquiring about the position.” 

“For yourself?” Her mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, expression shifting from surprise to shock, to bewilderment, and resting on doubt. “ _You_ wish to work… in a bakery.”

“I do, ma’am.”

“And just what does a knight know about baking?” she snorted. “It’s an art form, not a side hobby.”

“I am not skilled in the art of breadmaking, ‘tis true enough,” he agreed. “My kitchen skills are sadly limited to building up fires and chopping vegetables. But no one is born knowing everything about the world, and it is duty of every apprentice to learn his trade to the fullest. If you take me on, you will find me both a devoted pupil and fast learner. I am willing to do anything, even the most menial of tasks, and I am strong enough to aid with stocking and cleaning and… and whatever is asked of me.”

Barnham swallowed hard, biting his tongue to keep from aimlessly prattling. This baker didn’t have the best impression of him to start with; her rejection would be humiliating enough without the added embarrassment of begging for a position. She sized him up thoughtfully, gears churning behind her eyes.

“But why,” she finally asked, “do you want to work _here_? I’m certain the garrison pays more than I could ever hope to offer an apprentice. Any wages you make won’t amount to much, I’m afraid.”

“Erm… you see,” he explained hesitantly, “the majority of my coin came not from the garrison, but from my position as Court Inquisitor. Now that there are no witches, there is no need for a Witch’s Court.”

“And good riddance, I say!” Mrs. Eclaire huffed. “Nothing but a midnight carnival to terrorize innocent little girls, locking them in a metal cage before tossing them into a fire like table scraps. Half the time those ‘allegations’ were little better than jealous spats and the occasional accident.”

“You speak the truth,” he admitted, looking down at his sandals. To be honest, he’d been turning the same thoughts over in his mind since the Final Story. The Witch’s Court had not been without its flaws, and before Espella no convicted witch had ever escaped her deadly fate. It pained him to think of how many innocent, frightened women he’d consigned to the flames, and there was no one to blame for his actions but himself. He had made the choice, accepted the offer of Inquisitor when he could have refused and saved himself the trouble. But that would have been choosing disgrace over duty; he had truly thought, at the time, that he was doing what was right by Labyrinthia and its citizens.

“The dissolution of the Inquisition is, in itself, not something to be mourned. I am… _glad_ that we have no more need of it. But this turn of events has also left me without employment.”

“But!” The door behind the counter creaked open suddenly, and one blue eye peered around the frame. Clearly, Espella had been eavesdropping for some time—perhaps attempting to see if he was planning an arrest. “But even if you’re not an Inquisitor, aren’t you still a knight?” she shyly pointed out. “Won’t they pay you to keep order?”

“’Tis not so clear-cut as that,” he confessed. “When Labyrinthia was a research facility, we were free to govern ourselves. But now the project is over, and there are certain statutes that must be observed.” He didn’t fully understand it himself. Labrelum’s attorney had explained in a meeting, but he was woefully ignorant of the modern world.

Thankfully there’d been no need for him to decipher the meaningless legal jargon; as Leader of the Order, he’d been invited as a courtesy. The Storyteller had nodded along and taken notes, while Lady Darklaw paused only to ask a question or two. It was she who’d later clarified the main points of the meeting, privately in their shared office. She’d then cornered him, grilling him on every facet of garrison life for nearly an hour before setting him free. 

“There will always be an Order of Knights,” he said with confidence. “But already it’s alarmingly clear that the Court and the garrison cannot continue as they have in the past. Sadly, knighthood is no longer the viable long-term career it once was. It is my personal goal to preserve as much of it as possible, for posterity. The Order has always been a civil service unit, and it will continue to be so… on a strictly voluntary basis.”

“They’re not planning to tear down the garrison, are they?” Espella frowned. 

“No… at least, not entirely. The garrison will still be the Order’s base of operations, but many of the buildings will either be renovated, or remodeled entirely. There are plans to add offices and an exhibition hall, among other things.”

“But… where will the knights go?” For a girl who’d been arrested numerous times, she sounded surprisingly concerned. Taken aback, he stared blankly at her; it took him a moment to answer.

“The barracks have been disbanded. Pages and squires have either returned to their families or are residing with the knights who sponsor them. Some knights also returned to their families, or to owned houses in town. The rest are… in charge of finding their own accommodation.”

“And what category do _you_ fall into, sir?” Mrs. Eclaire asked, the corner of her mouth turning as though she already knew the answer.

“I am… among the latter. But rest assured, I—”

“You’re homeless?!” Espella’s voice hit a high-pitched squawk, hands fisted at her sides.

“In a manner of speaking,” he conceded through his teeth. “But I am not—that is, once I find a steady source of income—”

“Where are you sleeping _tonight_?” Mrs. Eclaire, faster to the point than her young charge, glared sternly at him. He felt a hot wash of shame run through him and averted his eyes, ashamed to admit where he’d been sleeping this past week.

At the start Rouge had kindly allowed him to stay at the tavern, but the racket downstairs had kept both him and Constantine on edge. It had only taken two sleepless nights before he’d moved to the Courthouse. The last four days had been spent slumped over his work desk, his arms a pillow and cloak a blanket. His neck protested painfully each morning, but at least the office was quiet.

His only problem was avoiding his officemate, pretending to leave early and then sneaking back inside when he was sure she’d left for the evening. If she knew he was without a place to stay, Lady Darklaw would insist upon his sleeping at the manor. His pride would not allow him to be so beholden to anyone, much less _her_. At the moment, he would rather die from exposure to the elements—or a cricked neck— than accept her charity.

Her actions the night of the final trial had spoiled the already tumultuous air between them. It wasn’t that he hated her, or that she despised him. There were simply too many unspoken feelings, and neither of them knew how to breach the subject without tearing open old wounds. It was hard to be himself around her with the thought of broken trust so fresh in his mind, and from what he could tell she didn’t seem keen to be alone with him, either.

They acknowledged each other when necessary, working in otherwise tense silence on either side of the cold office. Their discussions—if they did discuss—were both civil and distant. Any topic unrelated to their respective duties was avoided whenever possible. This was the way it had always been after a heavy dispute. They were like two gears, normally working in seamless unison but now fallen out of sync and jamming the entire machine.

Normally something largescale, like a witch trial, was enough to force them back together. But witches were no more, and so there was no way of knowing how, or when, they would be able to make amends. He hoped that it would be soon; he hated the odd social dance they were currently locked in, always circling one another without ever meeting in the middle. Besides—he missed her. She was the closest thing he had to a friendship on equal standing, and whenever they fought he found his world sorely lacking in intelligent conversation. 

“If you won’t answer,” Mrs. Eclaire quipped, startling him from his thoughts, “then I’ll tell you. You’ll be sleeping here tonight.”

“I cannot accept that,” he refused politely. “As much as I appreciate your generous offer of hospitality, I—” 

“Food and board are included in the apprenticeship,” she interrupted, cocking her head. “The work’s not easy and we keep long hours here, especially when preparing for holidays. It only makes sense for you to live upstairs with us. Phoenix and Maya shared the old storage room, and it’s still empty. I’ll deduct the rent from your wages and what’s left is yours to do with as you please.”

“But I have a dog,” he added quickly, not wanting to leave anything to chance. “I cannot live here if he is unwelcome. I refuse to give him away. He’s well-behaved and I keep him groomed, but his fur is… copious.”

“He’s more than welcome… just as long as he doesn’t chase cats, that is!” Espella giggled.

“ _Mrow_ ,” a gravelly voice agreed. He looked up to see a black blob with eyes gazing at him from the rafters. It blinked slowly at him, a sinuous tail detaching from the rest of the shadow to switch back and forth in midair.

“He’s the picture of knightly honor,” he managed to say, once he’d found his voice. “But if he did, a proper scolding would be more than enough to remind him of his place.”

“It’s fine by me. The bakery rules are the same for everyone, animal and human. Just stay off the counters and don’t raid the shelves.” Mrs. Eclaire frowned up at the cat. “Some of us have a harder time of it than others.” Espella laughed again good-naturedly.

“In any case: Phoenix and Maya might not have been natural bakers, but they still have you beat two to one. If you’re going to help out around here, you’ll have to work doubly hard to meet my standards.” She winked, one dimple reappearing with a mischievous smirk. “We’ll work out a schedule as soon as you bring your things and get settled in. Espella, be a dear and go sweep out that room. It hasn’t seen hide nor hair of a broom in weeks. Open the window, too.”

“Yes, Aunt Patty.”

He could hardly believe his good luck. A job, board, and food, just like that? Was it really that easy? Mrs. Eclaire turned, clucking when she saw him still standing in the middle of the room.

“Well?” she asked, dismissing him with a wave of her mitts. “Off with you then, child… unless you’re about to tell me they took your job _and_ your clothes, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author Notes: 
> 
> -I can never settle on an accent for Mrs. Eclaire, but I like to imagine she's got a nice Geordie accent sometimes.  
> -If this fic seems familiar, that's because it is! this is a reworked fic based off something I posted years ago. Unfortunately, I accidentally deleted the fic and I can't remember the name of it, so I decided to use the title of the song it's now based around.  
> -Speaking of which, the song/lyrics are Pure Circle by JYOCHO. I highly recommend listening to it, because the tone of the song and its message is how I (as the author) imagine this fic.  
> -Listen to it here! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lSJrSxGfMgY


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